The Things We Don't Talk About
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Please read the warning and note, before you read the story.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

**Rated:** T—adult language, adult themes. As a result of an e-mail discussion with Owl and Cheri, I wrote my version of 'Mark and Dire Medical News'. I knew as I set out to write it, that it would touch on matters that some would find objectionable. Not that I intended to write anything graphic (anyone who's read any of my stuff knows that's really not my style, except for an occasional bit of bodily decomposition), but that I would at least have to come down off the fence on the subject touched on in 'Sins of Omission', i.e. sexual assault in prison. And, oh yeah, I figured as long as I was earning myself an 'R' rating, I'd use a Very Bad Word (just once, mind you, and in a moment of deserving intensity).

And, no, it's not a death story.

**Author's Notes:** It's the summer of '85. The virus that causes AIDS is known as HTLV-III and the test for it has been available since March. AZT, the first antiviral treatment for AIDS, is still two years away. Median survival time for AIDS is less than one year.

Father Atia is Joe Cadillac's son from _Man in a Glass House._

Many thanks to all those members of the forum who took the time to pre-read this and make comments and suggestions.

**The Things We Don't Talk About**

By L. M. Lewis

"_Dammit_."

"Well," Hardcastle looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table, "That shows you shouldn't try to peel carrots and watch TV at the same time."

"How 'bout a band-aid, instead of the advice? And I wasn't the one who brought the TV in here." Mark added, looking down at his slightly-peeled finger.

"_Don't_ suck on it, for Pete's sake." The judge looked over his shoulder a moment later, as he rummaged on the shelf for the first-aid kit. "Sheesh, don'tcha know your mouth is full of germs?" He pointed toward the sink. "Run it under cold water; I'll get ya some iodine."

"Ugh, that stuff burns."

"That means it's doing its job."

"Yeah, well," Mark turned on the tap and winced as he submerged his finger under the stream, "I think I'll just take my chances." He pulled it out and turned the water off. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze.

"All right, if you're gonna _whine_ about it." Hardcastle shrugged and fished a bandage out of the box, peeling open the wrapper.

"And not too tight," Mark held the finger out with an anticipatory grimace. "I still got a bunch of carrots to peel."

00000

Dinner got made, despite a few more pointed remarks from the judge on the general subject of clumsiness and, more specifically, about how he preferred his carrots to be orange, not red. There might have been even more to be said, but he still had his attention mostly on the portable TV, and the evening news, which promised further developments on the Orensco indictments.

By the time Mark was pulling the chicken out of the oven, the interview with the D.A. had come and gone, and Hardcastle was reaching for the off-switch with a look of satisfaction.

"Hey," Mark reached out and stayed his hand. "It's Frank."

It was, and Hardcastle turned the volume up a notch, in time to hear the end of the anchorman's voiceover, taking them live to the scene of the arrest, for details from LAPD Lieutenant Harper.

Frank was his usual phlegmatic self. The crimes were described with all due attention to form—everything hedged about with "allegedlies'. The man under arrest had been sought by the police for several weeks now. The inset photo, obviously a previous mug shot, was nothing remarkable. The name, Orrie Haltuner, meant nothing to Hardcastle, and he turned to Mark, to comment on the fact that there were still a _few_ denizens of the criminal justice system that he hadn't met personally.

The kid was staring, quite fixedly, at the screen.

_Well, he's heard of him._

McCormick's face was neutral, or maybe rigid was a better description. Hardcastle gestured with one finger toward the photo on the screen, just before the camera cut back to Frank. "You know him?"

Mark seemed to startle slightly, and cast a quick glance back to the judge. "Ah, yeah, maybe. A while back." He frowned. "Mighta heard of him."

Frank was giving terse and unsensational responses to the interviewer's prodding—Yes, the suspect was being accused in a series of assaults. Yes, there were concerns that he might have also infected several victims with 'a sexually transmitted disease'. The interviewer was pushing hard, but the answers stuck to the absolute bare bones of the facts. Frank acted as though he had never heard of the word 'speculation'.

"The Commissioner really has it in for him," Hardcastle shook his head in commiseration. "This'll be a hell of a hot potato. Frank said something about it last week. The guy's got that AIDS thing. He's been making the rounds of clinics. That's how they hoped to catch him. Frank doesn't think he'll be able to scrape together much in the way of witnesses, even though there seem to have been plenty of victims. Some of 'em are dead, and the rest of 'em don't want to come forward." Hardcastle let out a long breath. "He was hoping to just get this guy off the street for a while, even if they can't put together a successful prosecution; might save a few lives."

Hardcastle had become slowly aware that he was mostly talking to himself. Frank was gone from the screen, though Mark was still staring intently at the spot where he'd been. The judge reached forward and snapped off the switch. Mark blinked and then looked down at his own plate, though he didn't make any move to continue to eat.

"AIDS?" he asked a little dully, as though he'd lost track of the conversation.

"Yeah," Hardcastle frowned. "It was a nice piece of police work. Two of the victims had that test for it, you know, the whatchamacallit virus; they'd pointed the finger at Haltuner. Then Frank found a clinic that had a sample of this Haltuner guy's blood and had _it_ tested, and bingo.

"So, of course, all kinds of people are on Frank's case for that, hollering patient privacy, even though Haltuner was in the wind, and his parole had been revoked for non-appearance months ago, and Frank got a court order for the test.

"Same time, once the word got out, people started calling the department, scared out of their minds wanting to know who the police were looking for and every little detail of the case, stuff that couldn't be announced." Hardcastle shook his head with the weary certainty of a man who'd been behind that particular eight ball before. "I think Frank's gonna be damn glad this one's over."

There was a moment of silence before Mark responded with a slow and distracted, "Ah . . . yeah."

Hardcastle frowned. Mood swings were not an unknown phenomenon where McCormick was concerned but, in this case, there seemed to be a distinct _absence_ of mood.

"Your finger okay?" he asked with a nod of his head in that direction.

Mark jerked his gaze downward and fastened on the bandage, now soaked through with red along one side of his finger. He looked a tad paler to the judge and he pushed his chair back.

"You better clean it up again," Hardcastle admonished. "Put some iodine on it this time." But the kid was already up and at the sink before the last word had even left the judge's mouth. "Here," the judge had reached for the first aid kit again and was on his feet as well.

"Just put it down," Mark said sharply. "I'll do it."

"Well," Hardcastle huffed, "I can't help it you wanted it on so loose."

He stood back a bit and let McCormick deal with it. This time there was a liberal dousing of iodine and a larger band-aid reinforced with some tape.

"See," the judge nodded his approval, "now you're cookin'."

This got no more response from the younger man, just a hasty tidying up and a nervous look at the clock.

"You got a date, huh?"

Another hesitantly distracted, "Yeah."

"Well, I'm finished eating anyway," Hardcastle shrugged. "Got a hot date myself with that Orensco file." He slapped his hands together with deep satisfaction. "See ya in the morning. Bright and early, huh? You've got some roses to soap. Damn aphids."

A silent, barely acknowledging nod, and then the younger man was clearing the table so diligently that it left no room for further disparaging comment. Hardcastle paused a moment and, not hearing the expected gripes and complaints, frowned once to himself as he turned away.

00000

The first hour he'd driven aimlessly, or maybe there'd been some subliminal purpose, in the middle of that blind panic. Eventually he found himself in the neighborhood of St. Medard, Father Atia's church. Mark had only been there once before, and that had been for his own funeral. The irony was deeply shaking.

Saturday evening. He parked on the street not far down the block. He saw the faithful few departing the Saturday Mass. When the last two elderly women had tottered out, he eased himself out of his seat, reluctantly, and took the stairs slowly up.

He got himself to the doors, on the promise that he was not committed until he went inside, and then inside, with a last push of quiet desperation. He hadn't, in the whole past hour or so since he'd gotten the news, been able to think of a single other person he could talk to. And, he supposed, it was possible that Atia had already headed back to the rectory, in which case he would take it as a sign that he really oughtn't talk to anyone at all.

But already he could see the man, alone, dressed in a black cassock, standing near the front of the main aisle facing away from him. Mark frowned for a moment, thinking it might not be a good idea to walk in unannounced on someone who had once been kidnapped from his own church's front steps. He cleared his throat lightly as he stepped through the inner doors.

If Atia had any worries, they didn't show as he turned without startling. A slow smile spread over his face as he recognized his visitor.

"Mark, what brings you—?"

There must've been something in the look on his face; it brought Atia to a standstill. His tone had switched to one of deeper concern. "What's wrong?"

Mark's earlier fears, that he'd made a big mistake, that he would have to come up with some harebrained reason for a sudden visit, were quickly submerged in the simple kindness of the man's tone.

"Ah," he glanced quickly to the side, and spent one brief moment in regret for the old-fashioned anonymity of the confessional, "Father, can we talk?"

The priest gave a quick, practiced bow toward the sanctuary, then led McCormick through it, and to a small door off to the right. They were in a small sacristy, with much of the space taken up by the storage cabinets along the wall. Atia gestured toward one of the two chairs that made up the rest of the furniture, while he bent to scoop up the vestments he had laid across the other, obviously to be reused for the Sunday morning Mass.

He smiled as he opened a cabinet door and put them on a hook. "The Altar Guild ladies don't usually trust me to hang them up. They say I make a mess of things."

Mark nodded and forced a small smile. Some long-dormant part of his mind catalogued the color of the chasuble—green—_it stands for hope._ He suddenly did not believe in hope anymore, yet here he was.

Atia was seated now, across from him, with a look of piercing concern in his eyes but no questions. Somehow the silence was more urgent than any interrogation would have been. Mark looked down, found a neutral spot, a knot in the wood of the cabinet door just to the left of where the man sat.

"Father," he began, and then suddenly ran out of words. Silence again.

"Something happened?" Atia asked gently, after a long, heavy pause. "Did you need to confess something?"

Mark shot a look up at him. "Not exactly . . . oh, maybe. Dammit, oh, sorry." He felt himself flush a little. And dropped his gaze back down. "Yeah." It was barely a whisper. "Something did happen. It was a long time ago."

Not long. Not really. But it seemed to help to think of it that way. Another lifetime. A lifetime ago.

He was aware of the silence again, and that this time it was more expectant.

"When I was in San Quentin . . . You knew I'd done time there, didn't you?" He'd looked up again from this slightly more neutral territory.

Atia nodded. There was nothing judgmental in his expression but, then, after all, the man's father was a mobster and he managed to live in apparently peaceful co-existence with _that_. Mark had another sudden jolt that he hadn't made a mistake coming to St. Medard's.

But that didn't make the next part any easier. He looked away again, then, to his surprise, he said it out loud for the first time that he could ever remember.

"I was assaulted." It was an almost-breathless whisper, but in the small sacristy, he was certain Atia had heard him. But then he felt he might not have been _understood_, and he added, a little louder, "_sexually_ assaulted," and now it was a breathless rush. "It happens in prison. It happens to a lot of guys. There isn't much you can do about it." The words tumbled out, things he'd said to himself a thousand times finally finding voice.

He took a deeper breath and snuck a glance at the other man, suddenly aware that Atia had said nothing in return. He looked for shock, for disapproval. _Distaste_? _Pity, probably—after all, he's a priest; he has to be nice about things._ He thought pity would probably be the worst.

Instead, Atia had a reserved, thoughtful look that didn't look particularly troubled. McCormick supposed there wasn't much a priest didn't hear eventually. Mark took in another breath and sat back, finally looking at the man face-on.

Atia seemed to have sorted out his thoughts, with a slow nod of acknowledgement, and then an almost matter-of-fact assessment, "You were attacked—_assaulted_. There is no sin on the part of the victim, and no confession necessary, unless . . ." he hesitated for just slightest moment. Mark grimaced in anticipation. "Unless you sought revenge."

McCormick's jaw went a little slack. This had not been the aspersion he'd been readying himself for. It figured; a man of the cloth would think of it in those terms, the risk of meeting evil with evil.

Not that he _hadn't_ thought about it—vengeance in a multitude of forms, plotted out across a hundred dark nights, but none of it acted on. The guy was a predator, and Mark thought he, himself, had come to grips with his place in the food chain.

_Never, though, not really. It galled. _

And here was Atia, portraying weakness, _cowardice_, as necessary Christian virtue. Mark sat in mute astonishment for a moment before he finally admitted, "No, I never got any revenge."

Atia let slip a small smile of relief.

"But somebody did," Mark sighed wearily. He met Atia's newly-puzzled look with a flat shrug. "You know this AIDS thing?" A nod from the priest. "That's how you get it, you know," Mark continued on, very flatly, "guys with guys. And this guy, the one I'm talking about, he's got it."

Now there was concern; Atia had obviously thought it through to the same quick conclusion. "But have you—?"

Mark shook his head. "Just found out today. 'Bout two hours ago. His victims, though, they've tested positive."

"Then you ought to—"

"_Why_? There's not a damn thing to be done about it, Father." This time his flush was anger, not embarrassment and he was shaking his head in disbelief. "And I've lied and I've lied about this. Or at least I never told anyone the truth. And now it's all going to come out." He leaned forward, put his forehead in his hand and sat silently for a moment.

"And," he started up again slowly, still with his face down. "I can't tell _him_ about it. I can't. He sent me to that damn place. But it's not like it was meant to be a death sentence, and . . . and, besides, I just can't tell him. But I can't _not_ tell him. This is dangerous. _I'm _dangerous." He lifted his head; his smile was thin and rueful. "Hell, I even bled on the carrots today."

Atia seemed to take the non sequitur in stride. He put one hand on McCormick's shoulder lightly. "Is there anything else you are in need of confessing? So far all we have are some possible sins of omission. Those can be corrected."

"Maybe I'm not ready just yet, Father," Mark said, still flat. He tried not to let the knife's edge of despair into his tone.

"If you think it would help, I could talk to—"

"_No_." Mark shook his head once, firmly. "Confessions are, um, supposed to be confidential, aren't they?"

"Yes," Atia nodded, "The Seal of the Confessional. But I cannot give absolution unless you express both a willingness to repent and an intent not to continue."

"Like I said, Father," Mark replied quietly, "I don't think I'm ready . . . I'm not quite sure why I came, why I bothered you." He shook his head slowly. "I dunno, maybe I just needed to tell one person, and you got stuck being it." He was staring at the knot in the cabinet again. "I guess I just wanted one person to know."

He pulled himself upright in the chair. He'd managed to make Atia look even more concerned.

"Oh, no, Father. It's not like that. That wouldn't help things much, now, would it?" he said dryly.

"To take your own life is a mortal sin," Atia replied with intense sincerity.

"It's kinda hard on other people, too," Mark added, smiling thinly. "Might as well just tell him the truth, as do that. Anyway, he'd eventually figure out the reason, if I did something like that." He was on his feet; smiling down in assurance which he himself did not feel.

"Maybe I'll be ready, later on." He kept it light, floating over his real feelings with no acknowledgment. "You'll have to reserve me a big block of time, though, Father. I've been kinda busy."

Atia did not look much reassured. He was on his feet now, too, following McCormick out into the sanctuary, but he said nothing more to hinder the departure. Mark walked toward the vestibule, hearing the echo of his own footsteps in the empty church, and feeling Atia's worried gaze on his back.

By the time he was on the steps, walking down to the car in the darkening gloom, he had it all figured out.

00000

It was almost midnight when Frank got the call from one of his officers, a guy named Reismueller. He'd been five minutes away from packing it in for the night, and the temptation to ignore the ring had been almost overwhelming.

But nobody called his office at midnight for no reason, he figured, and so he'd picked it up with a weary, "Harper here."

"Ah, I gotta little problem, Lieutenant, thought maybe you'd wanna know." Reismueller sounded flustered, not a common condition for a street-hardened beat cop. "You know that guy who works with Judge Hardcastle, the parolee?"

"McCormick?"

"Yeah, _that_ guy," Reismueller said, sounding relieved to be handing something off. "See, we got called to a disturbance at a bar," he gave the address, it was a seedy place where the police had to intervene regularly, "and who do we pull out from the bottom of the heap, but this McCormick guy. Now, I don't have a single witness here who can blow less than a .25, except maybe the barkeep, and he never sees nothin', but I'm thinkin' if I book the guy for disorderly, hell, he's gonna get revoked right then and there, or close enough. And I don't want to be the guy who has to answer to Hardcase for bustin' his pet con."

Harper winced at the choice of terms, though he knew the viewpoint was common enough.

"I got him in the backroom of the bar right now. Whaddaya want me to do with him?"

"He's okay?"

"Yeah, well, pretty okay," Reismueller said casually. "He's gonna have a helluva hangover and maybe his nose'll need some straightening."

"Just keep him," Harper said definitively. "I'll be there in a bit. Don't send him in, and don't let him leave. Got that?"

"Got it," Reismueller said, with the satisfaction of a man who had made a wise call.

Harper hung up and pulled on his jacket, glad that he hadn't made any promises to Claudia about what time he'd be finished with the paperwork on this Haltuner case. He gave one brief thought to phoning Milt, then pushed it aside. He really couldn't answer any of the questions he'd be asked, and he only felt up to dealing with one side of the story at a time.

For Mark to stomp off, and end up in a bar, was not unprecedented. A constant exposure to the Hardcastle approach could have that effect on a person, but he usually chose his drinking establishments with a little more care, and, even with a few beers on board, McCormick knew better than to get drawn into a fight.

But odder still, was the fact that Frank had received a call from Milt not more than two and a half hours before. It had been a mix of congratulations and sympathy and there'd been no mention of McCormick, nor any sign that anything was amiss.

All this pondering got him absolutely nowhere, which was often the case when he considered the mystery that was life at Gulls Way, but it did take him as far as the front door of a joint called Harry's Outpost, where he was able to squeeze his car in between two squads and just behind a wagon.

Things were still getting sorted out, though the general tide was outgoing. Toward the back of the bar things were quieter, and Frank saw Reismueller.

"In here," the cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "He's behaving now. He was a little feisty when we first got here. I didn't tell him he's not under arrest."

"You got him cuffed?" Frank asked.

"Nah," Reismueller shook his head. "I got him holding his nose."

"Well," Frank said, sticking his hands in his pockets, "then he knows he's not under arrest."

Reismueller shrugged once and made a gesture toward the room. "He's all yours." He strolled away, back into the hubbub at the other end of the room, looking entirely glad to be going.

Frank took in a deep breath and opened the door.

The man in the corner, sitting on a case of beer and holding his nose tightly with a folded paper towel, barely lifted his eyes to acknowledge the lieutenant's arrival before he said, "Fuck off, Frank."

He didn't sound all that drunk. Harper would willingly admit that he'd never seen the man truly tie one on; maybe he'd moved into some stage of inebriation where anger was the main response. But even the expletive, though heartfelt, had been more weary than angry.

"Okay," Frank said impatiently. "You want Reismueller back in here, instead? There's a couple more spaces in the wagon."

This sarcasm was met with an unexpected silence. After a moment of that, Mark spoke again, almost mildly. "I screwed up, Frank. How come I'm not under arrest?"

Harper frowned at him, looking a little more closely. "Let's call it the discretionary powers of the police. What the hell's the matter with you, Mark? You get busted, Dalem's gonna want your ass, and Milt'll have to do some very fast talking."

"I screwed up," Mark repeated stubbornly. "I oughta be under arrest already."

A trickle of blood escaped the paper towel. Frank pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held his hand out. "Here, you're a mess."

Mark looked down at his own free hand and then reached for it, quickly making the switch. "I hope you don't want it back," he said dryly.

"Claudia buys them by the gross," Frank forced a smile. "You gonna tell me what the hell happened?"

"How 'bout I tell you I threw the first punch," Mark said tensely.

"Then I'd say the other guy must've been pretty damn provoking, if that's the case."

"It's a goddamn _parole_ violation, Frank, and you know it. What the hell happened to you guys being all law-and-order, huh?"

The older man shrugged. "Well, I think you earned a bye on this round. And I think Milt'll say the same thing."

"Oh, _great_, now I can't even get arrested. Where the hell was all this understanding when I needed it?" He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. "Just . . . great."

"So, what happened?" Frank frowned. "You forget to fertilize the begonias or something? You know he blows over almost before you can get to the end of the driveway. Hell, I talked to him a couple of hours ago and he sounded fine. I think you should hit the bathroom and get cleaned up, and I'll take you home. If you want, I'll even talk to—"

"_No_." The younger man's voice had shot up to a near-shout. But he was on his feet, making his way past Frank toward the bathroom further down the hall. "I'll drive myself." He'd dropped back down to a mutter.

"How much did you have to drink?" Frank asked pointedly.

"Not enough," came the response, as Mark pushed the bathroom door shut behind him.

Frank waited for him to emerge. He had the oddest notion that threatening McCormick with being run down to the lock-up wouldn't be much use in this situation, even beyond the unlikelihood that he would carry out the threat. But he was also fairly certain the kid wouldn't swing on him, even angry and drunk, and he had no intention of letting him put the cap on the night's follies with a DUI.

McCormick came out, less bloody and more subdued, about ten minutes later. Now that he no longer had to hold his nose, the damage was apparent. There was no way Milt wasn't going to notice this. Frank shook his head.

"Don't worry about it too much, kid. He'll have to divide it up between you for getting into trouble, and me for not telling him. Come on." He gave him a guiding hand under the elbow.

Mark pulled away. "Frank," he was keeping his voice very low and sensible now, "I'm okay, _really_, a couple of beers, that's all. I'll drive myself."

"Not a chance." Frank shook his head. "You gonna throw a punch at me? That really _will_ be a parole violation." Frank flashed a smile.

That was when he saw it, a quick, desperately dangerous look that might have been the prelude to the act, just as quickly mastered and submerged.

Frank stared at him openly. "What the hell is going on? You _wanted_ to violate your parole? Dammit, Mark."

The younger man said nothing, just started moving toward the door. Frank was only a step behind, but McCormick wasn't taking evasive maneuvers. When he got outside he stood there a moment, until Frank pointed out the sedan. He walked toward it and got in without further protest or comment.

Frank was feeling off his game. He'd been up too many hours straight and it had been a helluva day. At this point he really just wanted to take the kid home and make Milt deal with it—whatever 'it' was, hopefully only the maudlin consequences of one too many shots of tequila. But he felt one more slight moral obligation.

"Where'd you leave the Coyote? I can have it towed."

"It's okay. I put it in a lot a few blocks from here. It wouldn't last long on the streets around here."

More evidence, not too subtle, either. Frank started the car and put it in gear, giving one last wave to Reismueller.

_Take him home. Give him to Milt._

And the first rule of interrogation was to get the suspect talking. Only, in this case, he didn't even know what crime he was investigating.

So he talked himself.

"Long day."

"Sorry, Frank," Mark murmured, almost reflexively. "You didn't have to come."

"Yeah, I did. Couldn't leave poor Reismueller holding the bag like that."

"If you see him, tell _him_ I'm sorry, too."

"You didn't swing on him, did you?" Frank asked with astonishment.

"Just once."

"I can't believe he let you get away with that," Frank said in low disbelief. "You are one lucky sonuva—"

"Tell me about it," Mark interrupted harshly. "Look, Frank, could you drop me off at the gate? Hardcastle thinks I'm out on a date." He paused, Frank said nothing. Mark haltingly continued, "You don't want him seeing _you_ driving up with me." It was flat, and an utter failure as humor. He was obviously off his game as well.

"Sorry, kid, I'm already in pretty deep. I recommend we both just throw ourselves on the mercy of the court. Might help, though, if you told me what's at the bottom of this."

"Nothing," McCormick said, quick and unconvincing. "Just had a bad day."

"You and me, both." Frank let out a heavy breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mark stiffen a little. It might have been that, and the merest ghost of cop instinct, flitting over the recollection of the well-thumbed file. And if Milt had seen the news report, Mark had probably seen it, too.

"Haltuner," he said—just that, just the name. He let it sit there for a minute, in the rapidly crystallizing air around it. No question about it, Mark was way too rigid to be truly drunk. "He did time in San Quentin," Frank went on; it was like feeling his way in the dark, but the instinct was getting stronger by the minute. "You knew him?"

He thought the actual answer might not really matter; more hinged on tone and body language. But, to his surprise, he got a straightforward, "Yeah," and the language was entirely without emotion.

Frank was still trying to think of a tactful way of putting his worst suspicions into a question, when Mark jumped over all of that and said, "He's just as bad as you think he is, and putting him back in jail is not going to help."

"He's pretty sick now," Frank said quietly. "I think he was almost glad we caught him."

Mark turned his head slowly. He stared for a moment, as though that was a hard idea to grasp.

"Oh . . . might not even make it to trial, huh?" he said coldly. "At least it'll be easier for the victims that way."

"Will it?" Frank asked. "I mean, if a person never admits anything happened, how the hell do they get past it?"

"Screw that, Frank," Mark shot back bitterly. "In prison or out, it's all the same with that. They're _damaged_. That damn disease just makes it official. Better to just bury it for as long as you can."

"And when you can't do that anymore?"

Mark had turned his face away, was looking out to the other side. He said nothing.

"I'm sorry," Frank finally said quietly.

"Don't be. It's over. It's the past. Nothing to be done about it." Mark swung his head back suddenly. "And no need to tell Hardcastle. Dammit. Frank, you gotta promise me that."

Frank opened and closed his mouth once on that. In fact, the idea of being the one to tell Milt more than appalled him, but then he drew back to a better defensive position.

"You mean I should just sit back and let you sabotage your parole so you can go off and hide in prison?"

"I wasn't—"

"You sure as hell _were_, from what I saw." Frank cast a quick look to the side and shook his head in disgust. "And if I gotta tell Milt what's going on, to keep you from doing something stupid, then I will," he added angrily.

Mark's look of wild defiance lasted for only a second, and the despair that followed on its heels was so obvious that Frank almost regretted the threat. He jumped back in, saying, "Whether or not to tell him, maybe that should be your decision, but I think you should."

"He won't be able to handle it, Frank."

"How the hell do you know? He was a judge. There's nothing he hasn't heard. And he's always known the difference between a perpetrator and a victim."

"_Victim_," Mark muttered.

"Yeah," Frank nodded firmly, "victim. Same as if somebody hits you over the head with a baseball bat, or shoots you. It's a violent crime."

"I know _that_," the younger man murmured. Then he halted for a moment, as though he were searching for the right words. "That wasn't the part of handling it that I was really worried about."

Another pause. Frank found himself staring straight ahead, trying to give the other man some space.

"I dunno," Mark said, after a long silent moment. "I dunno how to explain this. Things are different now, have been for a while. You know I used to wish he'd feel guilty about having sentenced me, and he sure as hell didn't. That's just how it was." McCormick shook his head slowly. "But now, somehow, I think maybe he does feel a little bad, but maybe like he wished he hadn't had to do it. And, okay, this is kinda crazy, but, now I _don't_ want him to feel guilty . . . does that make any sense?" He'd turned toward Harper.

The lieutenant frowned. "From you, maybe."

"So you see, if he found out this thing, and that it happened while I was _there_, well . . . maybe he wouldn't look at me differently, maybe that part we could work around, but it's gonna make a difference about the other thing. I know it will." Mark said it with a certainty that made his words hard to doubt.

"And when I get sick—"

Frank looked sharply to the side and said, "You've been tested?"

"No," Mark said. "Why the hell should I be? It'll just make it more real."

"But maybe you don't have it."

"You said his other victims did. That's how you get it, right?"

"One of the ways," Frank admitted. "Yeah. But you look fine and it's been—"

"A while," Mark frowned, "'bout two and a half years. But that's how it is. You're fine, and then you're not fine, and then you die. I knew a guy who looked good in the joint. Saw him a few months ago and he was skin and bones."

"What was his name?"

"Albie Rieves." Mark cast him a worried look. "Oh, don't tell me."

"Yeah, he's on the list."

"Shit. He never said."

"So," Frank leaned hard on the logic of hope, "this guy Rieves, and you, same time, and he's already dying. So maybe you got lucky."

"Or maybe it's clean living and lots of fresh air." Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And maybe I just want to let it ride."

"And what if you have one of your little misadventures, and you wind up bleeding all over the place. Don't tell me _that_ can't happen." Frank said stubbornly. "Hell, it happened tonight."

"Yeah, exactly," Mark replied. "See my point? And you think I should just hang around Gulls Way."

"No," Frank held his ground, "I think you should get tested, and make an informed decision. Stay or go, and whether or not you tell Milt."

Mark was gritting his teeth. "Is there an 'or else' to that?"

"Yeah, if you run away, or try to get yourself busted, _I'll_ tell him what's what."

"And what if I go back there and sit tight?"

"Hah, the way you are now? I'd give him three days to figure out something's wrong, and that's on the long side, and one more after that to put the pieces together. He was a cop before I was."

"And if I get tested," Mark said quietly, "you'll let me make my own decision after that?"

Frank hesitated. This part he wasn't so sure of, but again he let his instincts lead him. "Yeah," he finally said. "And I think you'll make the right choice."

A long pause followed, in which Frank felt that Mark was standing on the brink of a decision. Finally the younger man said, grudgingly, "How do I do it, without him finding out?"

"That's easy," Frank shrugged. "There's a clinic. I'll make the appointment."

"Will handcuffs be involved, or will you trust me on this?" Mark smiled grimly.

"No handcuffs," Frank shook his head once. "But I will give you a police escort. I don't want you to get lost."

This got him a short sharp laugh and then, "You know this means you gotta drop me off at the gate and lie like a rug the next time you see Hardcase. I think the Coyote was stalling out, I parked it, wandered around a while until I saw a place that looked like it had a phone, and then walked right into some drunk's fist when I went in the door."

"You don't even have to work at it, do you?" Frank said with dubious admiration.

"Lots of practice," Mark replied solemnly, "but sometimes it's still not enough. He's got some weird radar thing going." The younger man sighed. "So it's better if just one of us tells the story, and not till tomorrow morning. I need to be stone-cold sober for this."

Frank nodded once in understanding. "Okay, the gate. And I'll call you Monday about the appointment."

00000

He probably had slept at least part of the time between when he arrived stealthily at the gatehouse and when he heard the familiar, uneven drumming of Hardcastle's morning lay-up routine.

He took his time showering and getting dressed. The nose swelling had been joined by some Technicolor effects below both eyes. This wasn't so bad, but he was worried that the bruises on his right knuckles were going to tip off warning signals. Self-defense, it was only human nature. At least Hardcastle wasn't Father Atia; he didn't expect a guy to just take it without fighting back.

He might've bet any amount of money on the first words out of Hardcastle's mouth.

"What the hell happened to you, McCormick?"

He stuck to the story. Just enough detail for verisimilitude, not so much that he'd have trouble keeping track of it. At least it got him out of a game. Basketball was very much a contact sport at Gulls Way, and they'd both left a fair amount of blood on the court over the past two years.

"I'll need a ride," he finished up, "to get the Coyote later on." That was the best idea; give the guy something to grouse about, and it might distract him from the more unlikely points of the story.

"How'd ya get home last night?"

"Frank," he said flatly. Trying to deny it would just complicate things.

"But how come—"

"Cop recognized me, called him. There were a lot of people involved, lots of confusion."

"Your date was okay?"

Mark made a little waving motion of his hand. "Already dropped her off before the car trouble started."

Hardcastle nodded and was giving the younger man's face another close study. So far all the questions had been asked with only straightforward, unsuspicious concern, and the ease with which the story was being swallowed—hook, line, and sinker—made Mark feel wretchedly dishonest.

"So, how come you didn't have it towed?" the judge asked. "I mean, how do you figure you're gonna be able to drive it home today?"

It wasn't the third degree, but at least it was something. Mark shrugged it off lightly. Hardcastle's knowledge of the inner workings of the Coyote was fairly limited, but he kept it vague, just in case.

"Only seems to act up after I've been driving for a while. If I can't get it all the way home, I can always call a tow today." Mark stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and said, "Might as well get started on those roses."

"Nah," Hardcastle sniffed the air and studied the sky to the west. "Might rain. Won't work if it rains right afterwards. We'll go get the car."

00000

They went, and returned, with no idle speculation from the judge about the nature of the neighborhood McCormick had chosen to become stranded in. He'd insisted on driving by the bar, now closed and with one boarded-up window. He said nothing about that, either.

In fact, the sum total of the things Hardcastle hadn't said so far that day was starting to weigh a little heavily on Mark's conscience, and he was glad to finally get into the Coyote for his solo drive home. Of course, Hardcastle hung around just in case. And again he said nothing when the thing started up perfectly and caused no problems whatsoever on the trip back.

Once home, McCormick escaped into the rose garden, soaping with a diligence that, at any other time, would have elicited comment. The judge seemed to have found himself somewhere else to be busy.

Mark had been at it for almost an hour when he encountered a thorn that left a deep scratch across his knuckle. He muttered a quick curse as he watched the blood well up. On any other day he would have wiped it off on his already spotted work jeans; if he stopped for every scrape and poke, he would never get _anything_ finished, but now everything was different.

He did a quick calculation of the trajectory to the gatehouse. It would be pretty obvious, if he was seen, that he'd avoided the main house to get to the further structure. He sighed. He trudged toward the back door and let himself in. Hardcastle was, of course, sitting right there at the kitchen table. Mark went to the sink and turned on the water.

The judge looked up from his paper. "Gotta start buying the economy-sized boxes, huh?"

It was a perfectly innocent statement, though maybe a little mild for Hardcase. Mark controlled his wince, or at least hoped it coincided with the first flush of water on the wound.

"It's nothing," he said, "just a scratch." Then he managed a small grin. "I've always wanted to say that." He hope that little bit of nonchalance would carry him through, and it seemed for a moment that he was right.

Then Hardcastle was on his feet, reaching up to the shelf for the first aid kit and rummaging in it for the familiar box of bandages.

"I'll take care of it," McCormick said, and he knew it had come across as curt as soon as the words left his mouth.

The judge frowned quickly and put the box down on the counter, then resumed his seat without so much as a sharp remark.

Mark was left with the question of damage control. Too much would just draw attention to the whole thing. In the end he just let it lie, but applied the iodine and the band-aid with all due care and in full view of the judge.

"Can't be too careful," Hardcastle said, giving the younger man a look that might have implied nothing more than the words, but somehow seemed to McCormick to be a whole lot more fraught than that.

00000

He had managed to get through the rest of the day without any more incidents, though the sideward, quiet looks from Hardcastle were plenty disturbing. He'd made sure that dinner didn't involve any chopping or slicing. Everything had seemed to settle back to normal. _Except that it's way beyond that,_ McCormick thought, as he headed back to the gatehouse a little earlier than was usual, on the excuse of being still short of sleep from the night before.

It was all perfectly true, but he doubted that he would be getting much tonight. He fought back the urge to call Frank, to argue that it had all been a drunken rant and none of it was true. He had not the slightest hope that a story like that would be believed and, besides, just twenty-four hours of living on the edge of uncertainty had drained him as much as any illness might have. A few months of this, or even a few weeks, would drive him quietly mad.

So he lay down, prepared to wait out the night, and get on with it in the morning, no matter what would come.

00000

To his surprise, he was asleep when the call came, and it was eight forty-seven by the clock. He was fairly certain he wouldn't have slept through one of Hardcastle's basketball sessions, which meant things were even further out of kilter.

His concern must have bled through into his greeting when he picked up the receiver.

"You okay?" Frank asked.

"Same old," Mark answered impatiently. "What time?"

"Ten-thirty, you meet me here. I'll run you over there," Frank replied in a tone that brooked no last minute change of heart.

"Okay," McCormick muttered, "unless he's got some plans he didn't mention yesterday; then we'll have to change it."

"If that happens, I'll be stopping by to check on things," Harper said ominously.

McCormick didn't buy the ominous part for a minute, but he knew he was supposed to act properly cowed, so he stuck to the script.

"Don't worry, Frank. He didn't say there was anything on the schedule but mulching. I'll meet you."

00000

Frank was apparently a known entity at the clinic, which was a discrete storefront operation not all that far from Harry's Outpost. The paperwork was done quickly and the bite of the needle barely ranked with the rosebush scratch from the day before.

"We'll call you when the results are in," the soberly professional counselor said. "We call everyone and schedule a return appointment, regardless of the results. We'll also talk about high-risk behaviors and methods of preventing transmission."

"I think I'm pretty clear on that," McCormick said tersely.

The counselor gave him a quick appraising look, as if to say his presence there suggested otherwise, but McCormick just took it silently. He was in no mood to explain.

And it was over, as quick as that. It wasn't until he'd gotten back outside on the sidewalk with Frank, that he allowed himself to slump a little. Harper stood there, hands in pockets, apparently doing his own assessment.

Mark cast him a baleful look. "They knew you in there, huh? This is where you've been taking the other 'victims'?" He almost spat the last word out.

"Mostly," Frank admitted. "The ones who hadn't already been tested on their own."

"How many?" Mark moderated his tone, hoping for an answer.

"A few."

"How many positives?" he asked, a little more impatiently.

"A few."

"All?"

"Ah . . ."

"No," Mark said with a hasty shake of the head, "don't answer that."

"Some of them had other 'risk factors'." Frank took his elbow and steered him toward the car.

Mark looked over his shoulder, back at the clinic, as they walked, and then turned to Frank and asked, "How long does it take? I mean, for the results."

"A day or two," Frank said, unlocking the door.

"Good," Mark exhaled, smiling wanly. "Don't think I can go without sleep much longer than that."

"You said anything to Milt, yet?"

A quick shake of the head.

"I dunno, maybe you should."

"Maybe I won't have to," Mark replied quietly.

"They released Haltuner from the infirmary yesterday." Frank segued. "He's doing a little better."

Mark grimaced. "Not into the general block, I hope."

"No," Harper admitted, "someplace a little more secure, though it's mostly for his own protection now. But one of the witnesses died. That was early this morning."

Frank had put the car in gear, but he was still at the side of the road, unmoving. The silence drew out.

Mark finally exhaled heavily. "No, Frank, I'm not going to. Sorry. I won't go through all that again just to add a bow to your case. He's got his death sentence already. That ought to be enough."

"Didn't hurt to ask, I suppose," Harper said without much chagrin

00000

He'd planned on telling Hardcastle that he'd spent the morning over at Tommy's shop, delving into the innards of the Coyote. But it wasn't as if he was much in the mood for lying, and, miracle of miracles, the question didn't even arise. It was as though his absence and return were being steadily ignored.

He spent the rest of the day in chores that kept him out of the main house as much as possible. In his favor was the existence of an unwritten but very lengthy 'to-do' list that was continually being griped about by the judge. But Mark had that same nagging notion as the day before that he was being watched, and he was starting to worry, too, that this much dogged enthusiasm for chores was so out-of-character that it would be a matter for comment.

Eventually, in the late afternoon, he found himself over at the south end of the yard, near the path to the beach. He wasn't much in the mood for a walk, either, but it would kill some time. He leaned the rake he'd been using up against a tree, wiped his hands on his pants, and started down.

He hadn't done it in a while. It was a pity, he thought, to live right next to the ocean and not even bother with it, to take it for granted. After all, it'd still be there tomorrow, and the day after, even if he wasn't.

Oceans, stars, all useful things for making yourself feel properly small in the universal scheme of things. And if you are small, how much smaller must your problems be?

Once he made it to the beach, he didn't even bother to walk. He just stood there, watching the succession of waves. It was nothing spectacular today, just the ordinary sort of extraordinary. The sun had slipped to the right, but it was high summer and there were still hours of daylight remaining. But set it would, inevitably—the tide would go out, and the stars would appear, and long before then he would have to walk back up to the estate and sit down across the table from Hardcastle and pretend that everything was all right.

"You okay?"

He twitched, even though almost before he'd registered the sound, he knew who it was and knew why he'd come down there.

"Geez, Hardcase," he looked over his shoulder and tried for annoyed, "give a guy a heart attack, will ya?"

The judge nodded once and strolled over to stand by him.

"Just taking a break," Mark went on. "Nice day."

"I still think we might get that rain," Hardcastle gestured vaguely over his shoulder towards some very unambitious clouds. "It feels like rain."

Mark thought he could handle a discussion of the weather. "I could always wash the 'Vette if you want," he said with a slight smile. "That'll bring it."

"That'd be cheating," the judge said after a brief moment's thought and then, with hardly a pause, "Are you all right?" There was still no insistence to it, just the mildest overlay of concern, but Mark was beginning to wonder if even Frank had underestimated Hardcastle's detective skills.

"Okay . . . yeah," he said, aware that he was taking too long to answer. "I'm okay." And then he smiled and shrugged. "Back was getting a little sore, that's all. Too much raking. The old lumbago."

Hardcastle shifted his gaze to the ocean; he was standing up alongside him now, studying the endless motion of the waves.

"Okay," the older man finally echoed. "I was gonna grill. You getting hungry yet?"

Mark said 'yes' like he was supposed to.

"No hurry, though. Haven't even gotten the burgers out." Hardcastle cast another sideward look at him. "At least a half hour. Come up when you're ready."

Mark tried to figure out what the McCormick who had existed three days ago would have said and done. It had become that hard. In the end he settled for nothing, just a nod. He watched the judge walk away, climbing back up the path slowly.

00000

They got through dinner, though Mark had no appetite and conversation was an uphill battle. If anything, the silent lapses became more frequent and longer as the meal progressed. McCormick had the strange feeling that it wasn't just on his end, either. Hardcastle had eaten his burger slowly, and without any visible enthusiasm, and was pretty much lacking in his usual conversational rants and asides.

"You okay?" Mark finally asked. It was a dangerous gambit, but he couldn't help it anymore, he actually needed to know what was going on in the guy's head.

"Me?" Hardcastle finally came alive with a one-word expression of disbelief, and then he added, "_I'm_ okay," in a tone that implied that all McCormick's efforts at dissembling over the past thirty-six hours had been pretty much wasted.

And still the conversation went no further, as if it were enough for Mark to know that the judge was aware that something was wrong, without the older man demanding an explanation.

They finished the meal in near-silence, and then he left Mark alone to do the cleaning up. Then they settled back into a pattern of avoidance, and by now McCormick was convinced he had an accomplice.

00000

Tuesday morning passed with the same excruciating slowness as the preceding day. Mark knew better than to start the telephone watch much earlier than the afternoon, and even that, he figured, was wildly optimistic. Frank stopped by shortly after lunch, ostensibly to drop off some files that the judge had been hounding him about.

Even bearing these gifts, his reception from Hardcastle seemed a little cool. And even though there seemed to be no interrogation at hand, Mark had no intention of leaving the two of them alone.

Early on in the brief visit, Harper shot him an inquiring glance, and McCormick gave him a short, subtle shake of the head in return. It covered a multitude of questions, including whether the clinic had called. Mark had no illusions about being able to slink back there on his own to get the news. He thought Frank would probably be haunting Gulls Way by Wednesday afternoon.

Harper had finally been seen off, and Mark had retreated to the gatehouse to begin his vigil. There were, as expected, no phone calls and by this time he was no longer sure whether he wanted the phone to ring, or not.

Instead, the first thing that interrupted his solitude was a knock on the door. It was a fairly subdued, unusually polite knock, not like Hardcastle at all, though it could only be him. Four-thirty, too early for dinner.

Mark sighed and said, "It's open," loud enough to be heard on the outside.

The man's entrance was equally subdued, hands in his pockets, neutral expression. He had a file tucked under one arm; it looked like a prop and probably was, but Mark knew his place on the page well enough and dutifully asked, "Whatcha got?"

"More stuff on Orensco," Hardcastle said, with no great excitement, "from what Frank brought." He stepped further into the room and untucked the folder, handing it over.

"Okay," Mark said a little edgily. "I'll give it a look."

"You okay?" The question again. McCormick started to nod, almost impatiently, and then, without any shift in his voice, Hardcastle added, "Did they call yet?"

Mark was standing up, and was looking straight-on at the judge when he'd spoken. The older man's face was now set in a look of serious inquiry. McCormick knew there was no way he'd misheard what had been said.

He stammered once, and felt a chill down his back, almost as though he was really sick already. He backed up a step and found the couch, and sat down heavily.

"Frank?" was the first unfortunate word out of his mouth.

"Nah," Hardcastle replied with a small shake of his head. "He's been more closed-mouthed than you even. Made sense for you to talk to him, I suppose, his case and all. How the heck did you think you'd keep it a secret once you were testifying against that guy?" The judge frowned at that but then let out a sigh. "Anyway, I'm glad you at least went to Frank."

Mark was sifting through his rapidly collapsing ruin of lies and half-truths, trying to find a few usable fragments among the wreckage. It only took a moment to conclude that there was nothing there to salvage, best to start over from scratch.

"It's more like he came to me."

The judge looked puzzled. "How the hell did he know? I didn't figure it out till Sunday morning."

"He didn't," Mark replied slowly, "not at first. He just came to fetch me after the bar fight. When he figured _that_ out," he winced, "I mean, that I was trying to violate my parole, he figured out the rest."

"Whaddaya mean, violate your parole?" The judge looked confused. Then his voice rose. "Why the hell were you trying to do that? You think you had to cut and run?"

"I thought it might be better if you didn't know, if you didn't find out."

"Why?" Hardcastle asked with simple exasperation. He dropped down into a chair across from the sofa. "_Why_? You thought I'd toss you out on your keister or something? Dammit."

"No," Mark shook his head in quick denial, "I never thought that, hell no."

"Then what?"

Mark paused on that question. He still thought his original concern was valid, but telling the judge he oughtn't feel guilty seemed like a bad option right now.

But damned if the man's deductive machinery wasn't hitting on all cylinders just then; either that or Mark thought maybe he, himself, had somehow become completely transparent.

"You thought . . . " Hardcastle was frowning in deep concentration. "You thought I'd figure it was my fault, what happened?" It was not necessary to confirm it; the man was on a roll. "Well, dammit, of _course_ I feel some responsibility. The system screwed up royally on this, and I'm part of the system. Every time I hear about something like this—or a dirty cop, or a corrupt judge, for that matter—I feel responsible. It's _my_ system." The judge reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose firmly.

"Look," he started again slowly, "Frank told me about this guy. Sounds like he was a predator all along. There were . . . a _lot_ of victims. Maybe it would have helped if some of them had maybe _reported_ him to the authorities."

Mark stared at him open-mouthed for a moment. Then he shut it and, only a moment later, murmured, "Well, I guess that's one way of getting out from under it."

"What?"

"The guilt," McCormick went on, a little louder. "It had to be _our_ fault; we didn't turn the guy in. Just report him and everything would have been fine. Damn, now why didn't I think of that?" He shut his mouth again in a tight line of grim defiance.

"Well," Hardcastle said, "I didn't mean it would be—"

"Damn straight it wouldn't," the younger man lashed out again. "It wouldn't undo what had happened—it might help the next guy, _maybe_, but it'd definitely make it worse for you. Where's the goddamn percentage in that?" He shook his head. Then he went on, in an angry mutter, "And why the hell I was worried about how you'd feel about it—"

"Well," Hardcastle interrupted, "I _am_ sorry."

Mark lifted his gaze from the floor.

"I am," Hardcastle said again. "Very sorry . . . _my_ system, and this was a very wrong outcome."

There was a long silent pause, and then Mark sighed wearily, all the anger vaporizing like mist. "Well, I never thought it was _your_ fault . . . but it sure as hell wasn't _mine_ either."

"And I didn't mean to say anything like that."

"Okay."

"But," the judge edged back in his chair, as if to put a little more emotional distance between himself and the next question, "what made you think I couldn't stand to hear about all of this, before _or_ now? I mean, I'm not exactly the kind of person who falls apart; there wasn't going to be any weeping or moaning; I can handle hearing things."

"Judge," Mark shook his head slowly after a moment of thought. "You gotta understand something. I didn't _want _to talk about it. I _still_ don't want to talk about it. I would have taken it to the grave with me rather than talk about it." He saw Hardcastle blanch a little at this unfortunate choice of terms. Mark frowned impatiently. "You know what I mean. And don't tell me about 'getting past it'. I was—pretty much, anyway . . . at least until _this_." He drew his knees up in front of him and wrapped his arms around them.

Hardcastle leaned forward a little again. "So, did they call?"

"Not yet." Mark turned the back of his wrist up and checked his watch. "Almost five. Don't think they're gonna call today."

"Okay," the judge sat up straighter, slapped both hands on his knees and stood up. "Then let's go over to the house. You should eat."

Mark looked up at him, eyes a little wider.

Hardcastle shrugged. "Can't do anything else about it tonight. We'll deal with it tomorrow."

"'We'?"

"Yeah, 'we' . . . _us_."

"If it's positive . . . if _I'm _positive, I'm not gonna stay here."

"Why the hell not?"

"'_Cause_," Mark said, feeling a little aggravated that he had to explain the obvious. He gestured with his band-aided hand.

Hardcastle took it in stride. "Little late to be worrying about that, isn't it?" he said with a half smile. "You've been bleeding all over the place for nearly two years now—the lawn mower blade, the clippers. I keep _tellin_' ya to wear a pair of garden gloves." He pulled up a moment at the younger man's look of mortification. "Dammit, you're not Typhoid Mary. You washed the damned carrots off and cooked 'em in boiling water.

"Anyway," he added with chagrin, "I'll order pizza tonight; that sound safe enough?"

This got an echoing half-smile from the younger man, and a single slow nod.

"And you're not going anywhere," Hardcastle added definitively. "No matter what."

Mark nodded again; this time more in resignation. He got to his feet slowly, not hungry, but not willing to put up much more of a fight, either. He was halfway to the door, right behind the judge, when the phone rang.

They both froze where they were. Mark got unstuck first, and made it back to the table in a few quick steps.

It was the same counselor as the day before. She said the results were in, and he could have a nine-thirty appointment the next day, if that was suitable.

"You can't just tell me now?" Mark wasn't sure he'd controlled the rising tone in his voice, but he really didn't care at this point how panicky this woman thought he was.

"No, Mr. McCormick, as I said before, it's policy. No results by phone."

He gave up that fight, too.

"Nine-thirty," he repeated dully. "Okay."

He hung up and stared at the phone for a moment. "They won't tell me until I come in tomorrow," he said; despair had replaced panic.

"'Course not," Hardcastle said practically, snagging him by the elbow and leading him toward the door. "Can't tell you even if you're negative. If they started doing that, then anyone they wouldn't tell would know automatically that they were positive. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

Mark nodded silently.

"Now come on. I'm gonna order pizza and you're gonna eat it."

00000

Pizza was ordered, delivered, and eaten. There was some nagging involved in the last part, and there were leftovers, but Hardcastle was finally satisfied with the effort. They retreated to the den and sat there, not watching a movie for a while. Halfway through the evening, the phone rang.

It was Frank, without much of an excuse for calling. Hardcastle only let him flounder briefly before he said, without any sharpness to his tone, "Mark's here. You want to talk to him." Statement, not question, and Frank had fallen silent on the other end of the line as the judge handed the phone over to the younger man.

"'S'okay," Mark said into the receiver, and then after a brief pause, "They called back. Nine-thirty tomorrow . . . No, nothing by phone. It's policy."

A few more words from the other end, inaudible to the judge.

"Yeah, well, _I_ think it's stupid," Mark replied, but the despair that had been present earlier, had flattened out to mere hopelessness. "Nah," he said, after another pause, "you don't have to meet me. He's coming with me."

Some barely audible words in a tone of approval.

"Well," Mark exhaled, "it wasn't like I had a choice. You called it long by one day."

Frank said something else. Mark managed a half-smile. "Yeah, I'll remember that next time." He held the phone out to Hardcastle, who gestured it away.

"Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"You heard that?" Mark asked, as he put the receiver back to his ear, "Yeah, uh-huh, bye."

They gave up entirely on the movie after that, and, not too many minutes later, Mark excused himself. The judge walked him to the door, and then watched him traverse the short distance to his own front door. He was half-surprised not to see the younger man make a detour to the open part of the yard but, on second glance, there were no stars to be seen, only a low cloud cover that still bore the threat of rain.

00000

They'd sat in the truck, parked on the street, for about ten minute before it was well and truly half past nine. Mark hadn't wanted to go in early and he hadn't wanted the judge to go in at all.

He seemed less nervous than he'd been the night before, more resigned, and there hadn't been any conversation while they'd waited, just the sound of rain, steady on the roof.

"Okay," he'd checked his watch one last time and opened the passenger-side door, "just wait here for me, okay?"

Hardcastle gave him a reassuring nod and a pat on the arm. "'Course I will."

And then he was out, and moving quickly to avoid getting soaked, and then the waiting really began. Twenty minutes had passed, then twenty-five. The judge cast ever more frequent glances back in the direction of the clinic's doorway. He rationalized a whole series of explanations, including the usual overbooking that these places had to engage in, and the possibility that the counselor had been delayed by the weather and traffic, but creeping in among the shadows of these theories, was the stone hard fact that this was way too long to be any kind of good news.

At almost half an hour he was up and out of the truck, despite all his very sincere promises, and he was only saved, from a further violation of trust, by the appearance of Mark himself, now back outside, looking a bit thunderstruck but moving towards him.

"_Well_?" Hardcastle asked as he came within arm's reach.

"Negative," Mark replied, half-bemused, as if he still didn't quite believe it himself. He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and looked at it for a moment, as though it might have changed since the last time he'd checked it. "_Negative_." He held the paper out to the judge.

Hardcastle didn't bother with the paper; he was still studying the man. "Then what the hell took so long?" He finally asked, in flustered relief.

"Oh," Mark looked startled, and quickly checked his watch. "Sorry," he added ruefully. "I dunno; they were saying all sorts of stuff, but I'm not sure I got much of it after they handed me this." He was staring down at the paper again; it was rapidly accumulating water spots. "I think it was some stuff about how to avoid getting it." He looked up, face wet, hair plastered down, but absolutely grinning as he stuffed the paper back in his pocket. "I don't think they had 'stay out of prison' on the list."

The spark of humor was so unexpected that Hardcastle just stood there for a moment, staring.

"We're gonna get soaked out here," he finally said, as he grabbed the kid and pushed him toward the truck.

The shivering started in earnest on the way home. Hardcastle didn't think it was just from the dousing, but he turned the heater on. The grin had faded, and in its place was a more sober look.

"How many did Frank say there were?" Mark finally asked, after they'd hit the PCH.

Hardcastle cast a quick sideward glance. "'Bout fifteen they know of. They're guessing a bunch more. Only a couple that are willing to testify, though, and one of them is dead already, the other is pretty sick. Maybe that's why they're willing." The judge shook his head.

Mark shivered again, and wrapped his arms around himself. "Well," he finally said, "I guess I better talk to Frank."

"That'd be good," Hardcastle nodded. "It'd help a lot."

00000

The quiet shush of the small door sliding open in the dark, a change in atmosphere as the two small spaces connected, the feeling of a very close presence, still not visible, still unannounced. Memory and reflex.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

Formula, ritual.

"It has been, ah . . . twenty years since my last confession . . . no, wait, I think I did it once when I was in prison . . . yeah, I did."

Father Atia let out a quiet, patient exhalation.

"Listen," Mark said, quietly worried, "I need to ask you something."

"Is it a question about sin, about confession?" Atia asked, equally quiet.

"Yeah, sort of," Mark said. "Yeah, it is. You remember what I was talking about a few weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"The guy . . . _that_ guy—I was supposed to testify about him, when he came to trial. I told them I would do that."

"That's good," Atia said, his tone still very low and even. "You spoke to the judge about it, too, then. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah," Mark nodded to himself, "it's all right now. I told a bunch more lies on my way to telling him the truth, though, but he knows that and it's all straightened out."

"Lying," Father Atia said, very patiently, "is a sin."

"I know. Can we put that on the list?"

"That's not the main reason you're here?" Atia asked, with curiosity creeping into his voice.

"No," Mark answered nervously, "it's about the guy, Father, and me not wanting to testify. I _really_ didn't want to get up in a court room and talk about all that stuff, but I said I would."

"Reluctance to do the right thing is not a sin, as long as we overcome it."

"Yeah, well, I think I would've, if I'd had to. I'm pretty sure. But now, see, I don't have to. The guy died last night. There won't be any trial."

"It sounds for the best," Atia said gently.

"Yeah, for me, definitely," Mark exhaled. "But that's my question. I mean, I was never in my whole life so happy to hear someone passed on. Really. I was hoping for it."

"You prayed for another person's death?"

"Ah," Mark was giving this one some consideration. Lying in the confessional was to be avoided. He finally hedged his bet just a little. "Well, Father, I don't think it was quite that well organized. Just _hoping_, I think. That I wouldn't have to testify," he added, hastily.

"'God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform', but he doesn't listen to prayers for the death of others, not that I think we should be trying his patience."

"I'll stick with mysterious," Mark said with a sigh of relief. "So, I'm off the hook on that one?"

"It appears so. Anything else, besides the lying?"

A moment of profound silence.

"Breaking and entering," Mark continued slowly. "A couple of those. Um, trespass, right? You know about the one time, but I don't think that one even counts. Oh, and speeding . . . and, um, fornication."

"And are you seeking absolution? Are you expressing contrition and a sincere intent not to do these things again?"

More silence. And then, "Do you have such a thing as flagrant necessity?"

It was Father Atia's turn at the silence. He finally said, very quietly, "I'm not sure you are really ready for a confession, Mark. I think we may need to talk about the process some more."

"As long as I'm not on the hook for that guy's death. I never wanted that kind of revenge. Honestly. I mean, I don't think I did. You understand?"

"Well, I think _God_ understands."

"Ah . . . yeah. I hope so."


End file.
